Let's Don't Stop 'Till We Bleed
by UndercoverMoffat
Summary: A Destiel AU where Castiel Shurley is a blind musician and Dean Winchester is searching for a new life. AU, slight OOC. Part IV: "It's not a good idea to get attached to me, Dean."
1. Part I

**Let's Don't Stop 'Till We Bleed  
By HeavensRebel  
Destiel AU/Mentions of slight, non-slash Sabriel  
Romance/Hurt/Comfort  
Prompt/Summary: An AU where Castiel Shurley is a blind musician, and Dean Winchester is searching for a brand new life.**

**Rated T for Language  
Warning: First of all, AU. Character death (eventually), Guy-on-Guy (Always), Language, mentions of Drug Addiction. Tears may occur. OOC (esp Dean), but hey, it's AU. What AU ISN'T OOC?  
A/N: FIRST DESTIEL AU. I've sat down and pictured this entire fanfiction like a movie in my head more times than I can count. It's summer now, so I actually have time to write it. I didn't want to write this all out by hand – I wanted to type it, so this is why it's taken me so long. I don't have a computer at home, but some family friends of mine do and whenever I come over – BAM! I'm on. Always. I've started writing a companion story to this that'll be a Sabriel. Non-slash, more of a brotherly friendship thing, but Sabriel none-the-less.  
Named after Denial by Sevendust  
Broken up into separate parts do to length.**

**Also – in my mind, Lawerence is kind of how it looked in Season 4's "In the Beginning", except more modern. Just the same concept of all those stores and such in one place. And let's pretend The Roadhouse is A) there, and B) not as large as it is in the Canonly in the show. And not in the middle of nowhere. Just . . . you know what I mean XD**

_Part I:_

_Wait – never say that to me, all I hear is a scream_

The first thing Dean Winchester notices is the music.

He's not one for classical, or even that sissy-ass pop shit, and never cared much for string instruments (besides the guitar that is), but even he can't deny that it's beautiful. There's something about the way the notes twist and form around each other – he can almost picture them as they would appear on sheet music, dancing through the air with an odd sort of grace – that makes him stop, and listen.

The rain is cold on his neck, and the wind isn't doing much to help that fact, but even as the water runs in rivulets down his face, he still stands still, listening. He doesn't quite care that he's getting soaked.

The melody is strangely familiar, but he can't quite place it. A part of him is saying, _keep moving, get out of the rain_, but everything else is rebelling against that idea.

But, the fates are on his side today, and as the music ends, and he's finally pulled from his reverie, he realizes that it's source is actually coming from his destination – the Roadhouse entrance, just inches from where he's standing.

He pulls the door open, the Help Wanted sign fluttering in the gust created.

Inside, the music starts up again – different this time, more fast-paced, but sounds like forever in the sense that it must be the same instrument. His eyes are searching before he really realizes it – he pays little attention to the handful of people settled in chairs and around tables scattered over the place – , but a voice says his name and he gives up.

"Dean," Ellen smiles, arms held wide.

He smiles back, hugging her in response, "Hey, Ellen." Ellen Harville is an old family friend, since before his mother died in a house fire (years and years ago), so her touch is warm and familiar.

"Where the Hell have you been, boy?" she questions him, pushing him away at arms length and looking him over. He notices in the back of his mind that she's older, a few more lines and creases in her face, but she's in no way _old._

"You know," he shrugs, "Around."

"Yeah, yeah. How long were on that road trip anyway?" she rounds the counter as she speaks, pulling two tumblers from a sink and setting them on the surface. Dean sits, ears still paying more attention to the music in the background then her words.

"Huh? Oh . . . Six months, I think. I'm not really sure, I kind of lost track of time, you know with Sammy and everything."

Ellen sighs, pouring his favorite brand of whiskey into the shot glasses, "How is he?"

" . . . He's recovering."

Dean doesn't like to think about his brother.

"So I saw the Help Wanted sign," he grins.

Ellen laughs softly, "Yeah, for a busboy. Not really your cup of tea, I'd think."

"It's time I stay in one place," he counters, raising his glass towards her in cheers.

"You know if you asked, I'd give you the job in a heartbeat," she finishes her drink in one swallow. "I just don't think you'd like it. Have you talked to Bobby? I'm sure he could use an extra pair of hands."

Dean sighs again, "I don't wanna bother him. I mean, he's already done so much, helping me with Sam." Usually, he _would_ go straight to Bobby – after all he owns an auto-shop, and Dean's passion is _cars_, but what he tells Ellen is the truth. He really doesn't want to bother him anymore. Of course, their falling out is an element in that, but he decides not to bring it up.

"I don't think he'd mind, but if you insist." She holds her hand out and Dean takes it, smiling. "Just don't slack off this time around."

He chuckles, "Thanks again, Ellen. I won't."

"And be nice to Cass," she winks, gesturing over his shoulder towards the low, round stage in the back where they occasional held karaoke (oh, the memories with Ash and Jo).

Dean turns, sipping at his drink, and almost spits it out again because suddenly he can't breathe.

The music continues, and this time he recognizes the beat, the rhythm, – his favorite Kansas song, in fact – pouring from the vibrations of bow against string. It's a violin, he learns with a glance, darker in color than most, beautifully crafted. Even from this distance, he can tell there's an engraving on the side, in cursive, but he can't quite make it out.

That's not why he can't breathe.

Holding the instrument, delicately, with a touch lighter than the brush of a feather, is a man. More than that, an _angel_. (Because in case you didn't know, Dean is in fact gayer than a rainbow.)

He has a thick mop of dark hair, almost black, that sticks up every which way, perfectly capturing the ever-famous "just-rolled-out-of-bed" look, handsome features, with a well-defined, strong jawline, and that _mouth_. Dean can't see the color of his eyes, because sitting low on the strangers nose is a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses, but somehow he knows they're _blue._ (And he's always been a sucker for blue.) The stranger's hands are thin, pale, with long fingers that pull at the strings of the violin expertly, drawing the bow back and forth elegantly, as if pulling against air. Dean can't help but admire the site, and think about how bland the stool the man is sitting on seems in comparison.

He hears Ellen snickering behind him, "Yes, Dean. He bats for your team, and he's single. But he's a really shy fellow, so if you're going to go running after him, take it slow."

Dean kind of tunes out at _bats for your team_. Because really, that's all he needed to hear. Shy, he could work with. The single part helped.

"I heard that," the one Ellen referred to as Cass called out, setting his instrument onto his knee. "And I prefer Castiel."

_Castiel._ Odd. Interesting. _God, that voice. _It's deep, gruff like a smoker's, but so much better. Dean believes that if the concept of _sex_ could sound like something, anything, it'd be Castiel's voice.

Castiel stands, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose and putting his violin onto the stool. Dean draws his eyes away from Cass' face just long enough to notice what he's wearing – a dress shirt and blue tie, askew and backwards, no jacket, slacks and red converse that clash so heavily with the rest of his outfit it's almost comical.

Just then, Cass calls a name – _Balthy_ – and a golden retriever perks up from beneath a table, bounding towards the stage quickly, adorning a blue vest that stands out against his blonde fur. He sits at Castiel's feet, tail wagging and tongue lolling. Cass chuckles softly – an amazing sound that Dean almost doesn't catch – and pats the dog's head before grabbing hold of a short leash attached to the Balthy's vest.

The dog starts to lead Castiel away from the stage, towards the bar where Dean sits. And it hits him.

_He's blind._

The thought isn't negative or pitying – just, sad. Though it's probably only been a few minutes since Dean even knew of this Castiel's existence, he thinks that Cass' doesn't deserve it, not with his talent and his _beautiful face_ and the kind tone in his voice. Dean doesn't allow himself to be affected, so when Cass and Balthy the Seeing-Eye Dog reach him, and Cass sits on the stool next to Dean's without stumbling, he's already smiling and ready to introduce himself.

Cass beats him to it. "You must be Dean Winchester. I have heard quite a bit about you from Ellen."

A feeling that belongs to his teenage self sits in Dean's stomach. "Really?" he tosses Ellen a look. "What has she told you?" No, his voice is _not_ shaking with nervousness.

Castiel smiles, "That you have a knack for getting yourself into trouble."

_"_Gee thanks, Ellen."

Ellen tosses a bar rag over her shoulder, "My pleasure."

"Well," Castiel stands again, reaching for Balthy's leash, "I must go now. I will be in early tomorrow to help you open."

"Oh, there's no need, sweetheart," Ellen looks at Dean, "Dean here is our new busboy. He'll be in my six AM sharp."

"I will? – Uh, I mean. Yeah, I will. You, sleep in and, whatever." Dean. Wants. To. Die.

"Are you sure?" he directs his gaze towards Ellen, missing her face by only a few inches.

"Of course." Ellen's hiding a smile behind her hand.

"Alright. I will see you tomorrow, Ellen. Good-bye, Dean." And with Balthy leading the way, Castiel leaves the Roadhouse, leaving Dean to sigh and stare and admire that extremely hot ass – er, what?

As soon as the door closes behind Castiel, Ellen bursts out laughing, "Oh, Dean! You've got it bad. It's a good thing he can't see you – you were as red as a tomato."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Shaddup."

~X~

Dean is awake well before six am sharp.

It's maybe four-thirty when he gives up sleep – the nightmares won't leave him alone tonight – and ends up jumping into the crap shower of his new apartment. He has just enough money saved up from his road-trip days for three months rent, but with his new job at the Roadhouse he doesn't think it'll be too much of a problem. Needless to say, he's not at all worried about the money.

He finds himself singing Carry On Wayward Son at the top of his lungs, but that's besides the point.

Afterward, he calls Sam – his younger brother, who is currently locked away in a rehabilitation center. About two years ago, he had gotten himself into trouble and as the months went by, it only got worse. A few OD's later, and Dean felt he had no choice but to send him to rehab. After all, he wants his brother _alive. I_t's early – five-thirty – but he's pretty sure that's around the time they drag everybody out of bed. Turns out he's right.

"Hiya, Sammy," he mumbles around a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. The apartment came equipped with one of those cordless home-phones (he didn't even know they still made those) and sits on the counter next to the holder, phone pressed against his ear and cereal bowl in his hands.

"Hi, Dean," Sam sounds tired on the other line, like he's been awake all night again. Dean knows how he feels.

"How are The Rapists treating you?" It's a running joke between the two of them – apparently, therapist spells "the rapist", and after their last one (the sound their father had them see for years after their mom died) turned out to have child pornography on his work computer, they call every shrink that.

"Alright. There's this one, Pamela Barnes. She's nice."

"Is she hot?"

"Dean."

"What? Just looking out for you, Sammy!"

"Not that it matters to you," Sam snorts through the phone.

"Hey, remember what Daddy said about being nice?"

"Shut up."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean laughs and hops of the counter, placing his now empty cereal bowl into the sink. "Ellen gave me a job at the Roadhouse."

"I told you she would."

"Yeah, I know, but still. There's this guy – he plays the violin for them. He's really good."

"Is he hot?" Sam inquires, mocking Dean's earlier tone of voice.

"As a matter of fact, he is." Dean leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his ankles. "His name's Castiel."

"Odd name."

"Yeah, right. He's, ah, he's blind."

" . . . Oh, come on, you're not gonna let that stop you are you?"

"What? No – Sam. It wouldn't matter if he's blind or not."

"Wow. That hot, huh?"

"Would you shut up?"

"Oh, yeah I forgot. You're the new Dean. All nice and un-judgemental and what-not."

"Hey! I've always been that way."

"Yeah, and I've always been the Tooth Fairy."

"I don't have time for your childish games, Sammy. I have to get to work."

"Have fun. Tell _Castiel_," Sam says the name in a way that Dean really thinks he shouldn't, "I said hi."

~X~

Dean is surprised to see that Castiel is already at the Roadhouse, sitting on a bench outside, violin case next to him and Balthy at his feet. He's wearing a worn trench coat that fits his shoulders quite nicely, protecting him from the chill of the morning air.

"Hey," Dean says as he walks towards Castiel, pushing his hood of his head. "What're you doing here so early?"

"I couldn't sleep," Cass responds honestly, and Dean can hear in his voice that he too suffered from lack of sleep.

Dean settles next to him, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "Me neither."

Cass' dog pushes his nose against Dean's knee and whines, looking up at him with large, brown, doe-like eyes. Dean scratches behind his ears, "His name's Balthy right?"

"Yes. I named him after my cousin, Balthazar."

"That's . . . nice," Dean finishes awkwardly, not wanting to come across as rude. He wonders idly how these people chose these names for their kids.

"Thank you."

"Er, welcome." Dean leans back against the dew-soaked bench as Balthy rests his head between his two front paws, eyes closing.

"Ellen's running late," Castiel says with a tilt of the head, his fingertips running over the face of a watch on his right wrist. Dean notices that the hands are exposed and pointing to not numbers, but a pattern of raised bumps – Braille.

"That's a cool watch."

"Thank you. My brother, Gabriel, had it custom-made for me."

"Sounds like a cool brother."

Castiel smiles fondly, "He is. However, he does have a fondness for pulling pranks on people. It has gotten him into trouble more times than I can count."

Dean's too busy staring at Cass' smile to respond.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"Er –" _God, he is not drooling_ "– A brother, Sam."

"Does he live in Lawrence?" God. Nothing could ever be more adorable than that head-tilt.

"No. He lives in Topeka." As nice as Castiel is, he isn't quite ready to give up the details of his personal life. He's never really been one to – it's one of the reasons he's only ever had one serious relationship in his twenty-seven years of life.

"Are you close?"

Dean hesitates. He could feel the defense mechanisms in his mind flying up in red alert. According to those, Cass' questions are getting too close for comfort. He attempts to shove them away, "Yeah. He's my best friend."

"That is good."

"Yeah," Dean scans the horizon in search of Ellen, those same defense mechanisms in his brain still screaming for her to show up so he could just get to work and put this conversation behind him. The rest of him is telling them to _shut the Hell up_ but they're really strong, and they keep his mouth closed although he knows he should be polite and ask about Castiel's brother in return.

Those mechanisms won, because just then Ellen pulled up in a beaten-up, red pick-up truck. She climbs out, yells a greeting to Castiel and says to Dean, "Hey, Dean! Help me with these supplies would ya?"

He jogs over to her, taking a cardboard box out of her hands. She leans closer to them and says in a low voice, "So? Have you been talking to him?"

Dean's a little taken aback at the fact that Ellen actually seems to care about whether or not they got along. "Uh. Yeah. He's been asking me all sorts of questions."

"Really? Wow. He must really like you."

"What?" That teenage-feeling is back. God. Curse emotions.

"Yeah, like I said, he's really shy. He doesn't really talk to people that much, not even me." She pulls another cardboard box out of the truck and closes the door with her hip. "Now come on, you have a long day of work ahead of yeah."

And Dean's now looking forward to every minute of it.

**A/N: All right, next chapter/part, whatever, I promise I'm going to give you Dean/Sam's back story and a little bit on Castiel :D Reviews are welcome. Really they make me so happy. Even something random will leave me grinning for days XD**


	2. Part II

_Part II:_

_Wait - wipe that shit off your face; Let's don't stop till we bleed _

**A/N: Thanks for the review, and all the story alerts. Really it means so much to me. And I know this prob isn't as good right now as it's going to get – I promise, it'll be mind-blowing, at least story/plot-wise – so thanks to all sticking with me!**

** Also, I unwittingly seemed to give Dean the same personality of Jason Teague from **_**Smallville. **_**(Portrayed by none other than Jensen Ackles.) Except without the whole SPOILER ALERT* Mommy's boy, secretly an evil son of a bitch thing. **

** BTW: This is totally un-betad. All mistakes are my own, etc. **

The second thing Dean Winchester notices is that Castiel is as guarded as he is himself.

Yes, he did question him before, and yes, Ellen believed that Castiel quite liked Dean, but as soon as there's a spare moment to breathe (Ellen kept him running around – apparently being a _bus boy_ is a lot harder than you'd think), and he begins to question him in return, Cass does not give up answers so easily.

He starts simple, "How long have you played the violin?"

Cass does not cease playing – a cover of AC/DC's _Thunderstruck_ – and replies, "A while."

_Alright, way to be vague. _"Oh. Well, you're real good." Dean offers a smile.

"Thank you."

Dean sniffs, mind scrambling for something to say. He can feel Ellen's eyes boring into the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to turn around and give her the finger. "So uh . . .you said you have a brother, too?"

"Yes. Gabriel."

"Are you close?" he asks the same question Castiel did that morning.

" . . . We are now." The song bends and morphs into something Dean doesn't recognize, but figures isn't that bad. After all, Cass appears to have a good taste in music.

"That's . . . good." Dean rubs the back of his neck, attempting to dispel the tingling Ellen's gaze continued to cause. "Are you older, or?"

"He is. By four years."

_Oh, good, common ground. _"Yeah, I'm four years older than Sammy, too."

Cass cuts off in the middle of a note, a frown appearing on his face. "My violin is out of tune."

"Sounds fine to me," Dean responds in confusion.

"My ears are sharper than yours," Castiel says in a tone that's _almost_ smug, "When the body loses one sense, all of the others amplify."

_Bet you have the best orgasms ever. _But he most certainly is not going to say that, and he can think of no other reply.

In his brief moment of panic (that stupid teenage-feeling _still_ taking up residence in his stomach), Dean asks something that he OH GOD knows he'll regret, "So, uh, how'd it happen?"

Castiel stops fiddling with his instrument, eyes trained on the ground. In a constricted voice, he says, "How did what happen, exactly?"

_And shit. "_Oh, um, I –"

Just then, a distinctly feminine voice calls, "Dean? Dean is that you?"

If he isn't gay, he would so jump up and kiss Jo senseless.

He stands quickly, already being swept into an almost-tackle hug by the young blonde, "Dean! Where the Hell have you been? Where's Sam? Oh my _God, _you've met Cass right? Did Mom give you that job?"

It went on like this for another few minutes before Jo finally took a deep, much needed breath, and even though he has yet to answer any of her previous ones, shes asks another question, "So, are you living here now or?"

Something flashes deep within her wide, innocent eyes – because, unfortunately, she knows about Dean and why he left on his so-called road trip in the first place – but she doesn't push it further and simply waits for his reply.

"Uh, yeah, I got an apartment up on –"

"Do you need help moving?" The flash is gone, replaced by her usual hyper-and-bubbly self.

"No, no I'm good." He smiles reassuringly.

"Are you sure? Ash just got a new truck and everything -" Just then, right on cue, Ash appears behind Jo, slinging an arm around her shoulder, "Dean!"

He is ninety-nine-point-five percent certain Cass is listening in on the entire conversation, so he takes extra care in his words, only smiling softly at old inside jokes and watching his tone of voice. He's come _way_ too far to slip back into his old habits – something he's most certainly not going to allow Jo and Ash to trigger. They both offer more help before Jo claims that she has to get back to campus – she's a college freshmen this year, though Dean isn't quite sure what she's studying.

By nightfall, Ellen manages to successfully usher all stragglers out the door. There's one in particular, a local girl named Meg Masters that attempted to flirt with Cass for a good portion of the day. Dean's sure that if Ellen didn't get that bitch out soon, he'd have too, even with Ellen's "he bats for your team" assurance.

Balthy's leading Cass away after a cheerful good-bye from Ellen, and the both of them are halfway down the sidewalk before Dean looks once at his Impala and then runs to catch up.

"Hey, Cass!"

Castiel stops abruptly, causing Dean to almost collide with him. Balthy whines uncertainly, tail thumping back and forth in a blur. "Dean?"

"Can I, uh – " God, the feeling won't go away – "Walk with you?"

He frowns, seemingly confused, "What about your car?"

"Well, I can get it tomorrow."

"Alright then."

The two of them walk in silence for quite a while, the air far too chill for the time of year and the hour, and as Dean huddles in his jacket he steals a few glances at Castiel's stoic expression, a million memories flashing by in a millisecond – but for the life of him, he can't figure out why. "Hey, Cass, sorry about what I said earlier."

"You have no reason to be," his head tilts slightly, and it's just so _damn adorable_, "But that's alright." His grip tightens on the violin case swinging by his side, narrowly missing the too-happy dog in front of him.

Dean watches the action, wishing for once Sam were here – after all, he's the one that's good at reading people, not Dean. "No, it was out of line, I'm sorry."

The corner of Cass' mouth twitches, "It's a question you get used to."

Dean knows for certain he shouldn't press – it's far too private, and he's already made the _not-willing-to-open-my-heart-and-soul-for-you-sorry-dude_ observation – but the question is itching inside of his mouth, like it's a matter of life or death if he knows everything about this guy. He opens it, about to ask, when Cass stops and tilts his head again, "Do you hear that?"

It's another handful of seconds before Dean does – a thumping bass that he's always _hated, _no matter the type of music or what-the-frig-ever (it's annoying and obnoxious and he'll never understand in a million years how people can stomach that _noise_). It's closely followed be loud, rowdy laughter that doesn't belong in a town this size with the sun still trying to fall asleep beneath the horizon. One voice stands out against all others, though, and suddenly everything in Dean seizes up.

The pick-up truck has a bed that's far too small to be holding that many people – all of which he unfortunately recognizes – and the cab is visibly shaking from that _horrible_ "music." Dean's not entirely surprised to see Cass flinch and cover his ears – what with the whole heightened-senses thing.

"_Dean!"_

_ And shitshitshitshitshitshit._

A thin, tall figure hops out of the back of the truck, a sly grin stretched across features too large for his face. He slings an arm around Dean, the other hand rubbing at his scalp. Dean grunts under the familiar grip, his throat on fire with rage. _This can not be happening, not now._

"Where've you've been, boy?" The accent is sharp against his ears, and more unwelcome memories surface. "We've missed you."

"Yeah, I'm sure you have," Dean growls back, pulling out from underneath Alistair's headlock, very aware that his old-self is bubbling beneath the carefully constructed one he's taken months to master.

"Oh, don't be like," Alistair gives s lopsided grin and starts singing his signature song beneath his breath, his accent mangling the tune. He chuckles and takes a long pull from a cigarette dangling between his fingers, "Lisa told me to tell you hi."

In the back of his mind, Dean is aware of the sound of Castiel coughing. "Is that so? Well you can Lisa that she can bend over and s –" He stops mid-sentence, biting down hard enough on his tongue to taste blood. He refuses to get sucked back into Alistair's ways.

"And what, Deany? Hmm?" Alistair's prompts, a pale eyebrow snaking up his forehead. He leans close enough to Dean that the latter can smell the odd smoke-and-peppermint mixture that he's more accustomed to than he should be. "Whose your friend?"

"Leave him out of this," Dean pushes Alistair away, a defense feeling crawling up his spine.

"You always had problems sharing, didn't you?" Alistair grins again, sizing Castiel up in the manner one would a show horse. Dean's fist clenches and Balthy's barking like mad, Cass attempting to calm him with subtle pats on the head. Dean can't read his expression, not without seeing his eyes, but he can feel the vibes rolling off of him in waves. And they aren't approving.

"I said," Dean steps forward, so he's nose-to-nose with Alistair, "To leave him out of this."

Alistair laughs like a villain from those old movies, hands thrown upward in a "I-surrender" gesture, but Dean knows better, and he knows that when Alistair likes something, there's a good chance he'll get it.

"Come on, Al, he's not worth it!" It's then that Dean remembers that Alistair's old gang is watching and sniggering at the whole scene. The one that calls to Alistair is his sister, Lilith.

"Yeah, I know," he calls back, eyes still on Castiel, "But his friend is."

Dean's fist is already pulling back when Balthy suddenly launches at Alistair in a mass of yellow fur and gnashing teeth. Alistair screeches, pushing the dog off the pant leg he's clinging to, and runs back to the pick-up truck, yelling at whosever driving to "Step on it!"

Balthy doesn't stop barking until the car's disappeared, and all it's noise with it.

And then, so unbelievably calm and collective, without the slightest of tremors in his voice or anything of the sort, Cass says, "Good dog."

Dean pretty much wants to run the Hell away, as far and as fast as he can, but he knows for a fact that he's gotta be a man about this, and face the one thing that right now, he's not sure he'd be okay facing. "Cass, I'm so sorry, I –"

"Why?"

"I should've just," Dean sighs, "Just, left you alone, and now – now you're being dragged into my past and it _sucks_ and we barely know each other, and –"

"Alistair isn't just your past, Dean." And though his eyes are shielded behind sunglasses, and he's blind, Dean swears Cass is looking _right the Hell at him. "_It's not your fault."

He wants to ask – _what are you talking about, of course it's my fault – _but he has a (probably very accurate) feeling that even if he did, he wouldn't get a straight answer, or even one at all. And he wants more than anything to tell Cass absolutely everything, to walk him home and make sure he's alright and even maybe stay with him if that's what it takes to keep Alistair away, because Dean _knows_ what he's capable of. He's been running from it for the past five years.

Balthy's back at Cass side, bumping against his leg with his nose, whining again, and somehow it breaks Dean from his thoughts, "Cass, I – Where do you live? I don't think it'd be a good idea for you to be walking by yourself, now that –" he swallows hard and wishes – again, for the millionth time – that he's known this person for far longer than two days and far better than his fricking name. It's ridiculous, really, and he feels like one of those teenage girls from those stupid-ass vampire-romance novels, but he can't quite shake it, and he's not sure he even wants to.

"Alistair can't hurt me," Cass reassures, already stepping away, and everything inside of Dean is already screaming.

"Do you know him?" Dean asks, eyes trained on Cass sunglasses.

"Yes, but he doesn't know me."

That old sixth-sense of _don't you dare try to push this_ comes back, stronger than before and Dean drops the subject. It hurts too much to keep at it, anyway. "Still. I'd -" _I used to be so good at this _" – It seems to me like we were in the same foxhole, at one point or another."

"Oh, no, I assure you our . . . _foxholes_, are probably very different from each other."

Dean shakes his head, forgetting that Cass can't see him, "Every foxhole is the same, with Alistair."

Cass breaks out into a big grin just then, "You know, Ellen isn't as quiet as she believes herself to be. I can hear the conversations you two have."

Dean's face is suddenly on fire, "Er, what sort of conversations?"

"I'm not as shy as she makes me out to be. I just, don't get along very well with . . . people." He says the last word tentatively, like it's the only thing he can come up with to finish the sentence.

" . . . Am I considered people?"

"Do you consider yourself people?"

Dean doesn't have an answer for that – just the tiny flutter of hope burning low inside him. Cass has seen a glimpse into his screwed past, and even seems to have at least a bit of an understanding of it, in whichever aspect it may be. And he also knows that as much as he wants to learn about Cass, he's got to be willingly to open up, too – the thing is, he's not quite ready to. But even if he did, he thinks every last word would be worth it. Either way there's a lot of explaining to do on both parts, and the thing about life is, you can't always be prepared for what it throws at you.

Besides. He doesn't need Sam-The-Best-People-Reader-Ever to know that Cass is totally flirting with him.

~X~

"And you live here? All by yourself?"

"Yes," Castiel says from his place next to Dean on the loveseat. There's really close, and Dean's absolutely okay with it, even if Balthy-The-Over-Protective-Dog is eying him from his cozy spot in the middle of the rug spread across the carpeted floor of the cramped apartment. It's not much larger than Dean's, if only a couple square feet, but there's a certain warmth to it that at first he couldn't identify, but is now sure comes as a package-deal with Cass' presence.

"That's kind of messed up," Dean replies honestly.

"I can take care of myself," Cass sounds a little indignant.

"No, I know that, Cass, it's just -" he shrugs, "Where's your brother."

Cass sips calmly at his coffee, "Topeka."

"Like Sammy," Dean scoffs, "Small world."

"It really is," Cass muses, voice soft, as he rubs at his sunglasses.

"You know, I never really got the whole sunglasses thing." After the whole big fiasco with Alistair, Dean doesn't think watching his words is necessity. After all, Cass handled the situation better than Dean did himself. Don't get him wrong, there's still certain things he won't press at it – this just doesn't happen to be one of them.

"My pupils don't dilate or contract on their own," Cass explains, still rubbing, "So the glasses are a form of protection. They aren't required to wear indoors, however."

A tingle sits in Dean's chest, "So, why do you?"

"I've noticed that it makes some uncomfortable. They never quite know where to look."

"Oh." _Well, I wouldn't be uncomfortable. _But he's too much of a wuss to say anything.

"This particular pair, they're older," Cass scratches under the bridge, "They get scratched after a while."

"And they itch?"

"Yes," Cass sighs in frustration, and the tingle in Dean's chest expands – he feels like a shaken up soda can.

"Well, you don't have to wear them right now, do you? I mean, it's night, you're indoors." _And I'd give anything to see your eyes, if only once._

Cass hesitates once, a brief flicker of _something_ flashing over his face – it vanishes just as quickly though, and before Dean can take a moment to even attempt to identify it, Cass is already taking the glasses of and setting them on the coffee table.

And just like before, Dean can't breathe.

He was right – they _are_ blue, insanely blue, bluer than blue eyes ought to be. Not that stereotypical sky-blue, off-gray that comes with just about every blonde in existence; it runs deeper than that, more of an emotion-filled, the color of the frigging ocean _blue._ And while he's being poetic, Dean might as well admit that they're probably the most God-dam. beautiful blue he's ever seen in his entire life.

Cass turns his face to him, and it's pure bliss for Dean, seeing his face in it's entirety, and for a moment, all that's playing in his head is white noise. Cass is staring somewhere over Dean's left eye, those perfect-_blueblueblue _eyes flashing, "Thank you."

They stay like that for a moment, staring-but-not-quite at each other, and as Dean's gaze travels over Cass' too-perfect lips for the umpteenth time, a phone rings and they both jump.

It's Castiel's home phone, ringing loudly enough to practically cause the small, glass-topped table it's sitting on to vibrate. Cass reaches to his right automatically, fingertips brushing over the rough fabric of the loveseat and skimming across the smooth glass before finding purchase on the phone. "Do you mind?"

"No, of course not."_ Though who the Hell's calling at ten-thirty at night._

Cass picks up, pressing it his ear, "Gabriel?"

_Oh._

**A/N: Not a very good ending to a chapter, I know. And okay, I know I said something about Dean/Sam's backstory? I lied. DX Sorry guys. I did give little hints in here though, and I swear it won't remain a mystery forever. And this is shaping up to be a lot longer than I expected it. And trust me there's gonna be a big "WHHHHAAAA?" soon. And it'll probably be like "NO. HOW COULD YOU DO THAT" but it's the basis for the whole thing so DX. **

**Gah. ****Ignore my rambleing. Reviews are loved I don't think I've ever actually groveled and begged for them before, but I'm seriously about to. Because I love them so much, they make me so happy. And I'm so paranoid about plot holes (if you find any, will you tell me? Please?) Bah, anyway, again thanks for the story alerts/review and for even bothering to give this a chance XD**

** KEEP CALM AND FOLLOW THE HONEYBEES!**

** ~HR**


	3. Part III

_Part III:_

_The more you spit out your mouth the less I believe _

**A/N: OH MY GODSTIEL. It's only two reviews but they are so beautiful and they make my day, really. Thank you so much! I swear, I sat there and smiled till my face hurt. And DUDE. 7 Story Alerts and 8 Story Faves? That's more than I could have ever asked for! GOSH!**

** Okay, soooo I'm throwing in a dash of Sabriel right about now. Not the slashy kind though, just the best friends forever kind. I've had to refer back to my companion story like a bajillion times. Gosh, sorry, rambling, okay, okay I'm done.**

** One more thing: The lyrics that go with each part – they may not seem like it now, but they actually will end up pertaining a lot to the story :D**

The third thing Dean notices is that the world is shrinking by the minute.

He's more mad at Ellen than he really should be – after all, it isn't her fault that things are turning out this way, but he somehow thinks that if she would quit being so friggin' nice to him, he wouldn't have come back, and stayed in the first place.

He's scrubbing dishes a littler harder than necessary, the hot water turning his hands and forearms a startlingly shade of red. After he throws a glass into a strainer hard enough to make it crack, Ellen throws her arms in the air and exclaims, "Dean? What the _hell_ is your problem?"

He turns the faucet off, harsh words he struggles to hold back crawling out his throat and on his tongue. His voice is strained – as are his knuckles, as he grips the sink – when he's gained enough control to speak, "You didn't tell me that Cass' brother is in the same rehab center as Sammy."

"Well, Dean how was I supposed to know?" Ellen throws back in defense, folding her arms across her chest. "Is it really that big of a deal to get so worked up over?"

"It's too much of a coincidence, Ellen," he looks at her, green eyes wide with panic. "It's all too much of a coincidence."

"What are you talking about?" Her face softens sympathetically, and he suspects that she already _knows._

Dean's tone is shaking like a California earthquake. "Cass says he knows Alistair. At least, who he is."

"It's not that large of a town, sweetheart." She puts a hand on his shoulder, but he pulls away swiftly, turning back to to the sink.

"No, it's more than that. And . . . Ellen, he knows I'm back. Alistair knows I'm back."

And not even _Ellen_ could respond to that.

~X~

There's really only one thing that could such things off his mind, and that's getting the Hell out of Dodge.

So he visits Sammy.

The rehab center reeks of the stereotypical antiseptic scrub, the doctors (therapists) a little more tight-faced than your typical hospital, the walls a little less white and more yellow with various posters that display catchy phrases about staying away from drugs, the people waiting a little less sad and a little more angry. Dean blends right in.

He's not entirely sure about the inner-workings of this place – when he dragged Sam here, he didn't dare stick around long enough to find out – only knows that it feels more like a mental institution than anything else (and for all he knows, it probably is). The "visitor" room (please_)_ is cramped, the gray carpet beneath his feet thin, and bare, the chairs plastic and clashing with their bright orange color. Besides Dean and a few straggling doctors, the only other occupants are a thin teenage girl with dyed hair and various piercings and her red-faced, rich-looking mother.

He's watching them argue silently from his place across the room, slouching in his chair when he hears his brother. "Dean!"

He stands quickly, smiling, and pulls Sam into a lose embrace. "Heya, Sammy."

Sam settles in the chair across from his, resting his elbows on his knees, "So? How are things?"

Dean keeps it vague – so does Sam for that matter – as they exchange the casual conversation. It's usually like this, Dean muses. They both try so hard to pretend that everything is more or less _normal._

But Dean's not quite apt at containing his curiosity. "Hey, Sammy? Do you know anyone in there, named Gabriel?"

"Uh, yeah, he's a weird dude," Sam responds, mouth pulled down in confusion. "Why?"

"I, uh, know his brother," Dean replies offhandedly, staring over Sam's shoulder as he thinks.

" . . . Is it Castiel?" Sam asks then, gaze also not on Dean but somewhere else, in the distance, as if he, too, is thinking about something else entirely.

Dean's attention is pulled back to his brother's expression. He can't quite identify, but he'd put money on almost . . . startled. "Yeah?"

Sam mouths two words, (shame he's such a bad lip reader) and Dean sees pity in his eyes. He stands, looking away, deciding he really doesn't what to know what Sam pieced together – and he most certainly isn't telling him about Alistair. "Hey, I gotta go Sammy, I'll see you next week, okay?"

"But you just got here?"

"I have a lot to do," Dean lies.

"If you say so. Just be careful."

_If you only knew._

~X~

Cass is playing Led Zeppelin the next time Dean sees him, and he thinks it's probably the best song in existence.

Ellen's having pity on him today, letting him sit and sulk in his own mind and jumbled emotions, and even tells Jo and Ash to leave him alone when they swing by (which is the biggest relief ever.) He just sits and watches Cass play, admires the beauty in the whole affair, even, and replays their conversation over and over in his mind, turning over each word, checking under every facial expression, every glint in Cass' sightless eyes.

Both of them may not have shared much – just the basic, born in Lawrence, grew up here and there deal, and Dean didn't learn much more about Cass then what he had to start with.

This close, Dean can see the engraving on the side of Castiel's violin – _Angeli vigilantes super vos. _

Dean almost asks what it means, but Cass is playing so intensely and vigorously that he really doesn't want to interrupt.

Ellen appears behind him then, resting both hands on his shoulders and pressing her mouth to his ear, "Why don't you just ask him out?"

Dean jumps and says too loudly, "What?"

"Oh, come on, Dean," Ellen's still whispering, with much enthusiasm, might he add, "Stop being a chicken. This whole staring thing's starting to get creepy." She pats his cheek and walks away, throwing a parting smile over her shoulder.

Dean just shakes his head and wonders idly if Cass could hear her over his violin. Super-charged hearing, remember?

He doesn't have to wonder long – when Cass finishes playing, and is walking towards the bar he stops and gives Dean a head tilt. "Yes, Dean. I will go out with you."

~X~

The first thing Castiel Shurley notices is his voice.

It's beautiful in that deep, rough, carefully chosen sort of way – as if he has to repeat each and every word over in his head before he can give a response. Castiel can't help but notice that yes, he's obviously hiding something.

But isn't everybody?

He pays more attention to Dean's voice than anything else – more than the warmth Castiel feels when he's near, more than the breath against his face with every breath, more than the strange sense of security. Really, it's only been a few days. It's exactly the type of thing Gabriel would tease him over, as embarrassing as it is to think it.

These are his thoughts as he sits in the doctor's exam room, staring at a ceiling he can't see. He imagines it's tiled, with countless dots scattered within each individual border, and green. He's not sure why, but lately he's been focusing on the color _green._

It's the color he misses the most.

He hears the door open – a soft _shhk_ sound accompanied by sneakers on a worn-down floor, scuffing every so often. There's a smile in Dr. Milton's voice when she speaks, "Hello, Castiel."

He offers one in return, "Hello."

He hears her settle in a chair, the sound of the wheels on the bottom rubbing on the floor bothering him. He represses a wince as she asks, "Are the headache's getting any worse?"

He likes the way her voice forms around words – soft and caring, compassionate even – but he thinks they're nothing compared to Dean's. His thoughts are momentarily scattered before he remembers her question. "Yes." And unfortunately it's the truth.

A heavy sigh follows. "Any nosebleeds?"

"There has been a few, but they are . . . minimal in damage. They only last for a few seconds."

"I won't lie to you." He can picture her face in his mind, even though he's never seen it – wide-eyed, fair and soft, and right now her eyebrows are drawing together and upwards in an emotion he's quite used to. He can feel it _radiating_ off of most people. "That worries me."

"I know." He closes his eyes, the subtle change in light the only thing he sees.

"Have you been staying away from physical activities, like I asked?" The scratch of pen on paper.

"Yes," he says again, opening his eyes and focusing on where her voice is resonating from. "But I am still working."

"I'd rather you wouldn't." There's a slight dip in her voice – disappointment.

"It distracts me." His fingertips are tingling with the memory of his bow in his hand. If there's anything left in the world that hasn't been taken from him . . .

"Doctor, can I ask you something?" The words are out and smashing themselves into Dr. Milton's ears before Castiel really has time to stop and consider the consequences and ramifications of speaking them. He's not entirely sure where they even originated from – just that they exist. "Do you think that I am healthy enough for sexual activity?"

There's an incredibly long silence.

"Well, I, uh," Dr. Milton stutters, and she's ruffling her papers together. He can hear her every fidget, and, really, it's more amusing than it has any right to be. "I suppose so, as long as, uh -"

"Thank you," he smiles, not entirely regretting the question.

~X~

_There's nothing past the screaming._

_ It never ends – screaming, forever, and always, and without ceasing, not even for a nanosecond. That one sound, stretching into eternity. There's a flash of black, of something soft, of wide blue eyes and a jagged knife, the handle covered in bloody fingertips._

_ There's one thing mingled in with the screaming – laughter. A loud, maniacal laughter that's worse than anything that ever existed. The part that hurts the most though, is that it's familiar._

_ It's his own._

_ There's a hand on his left shoulder – a heavy, cold hand that squeezes, with long, blackened fingernails digging into his flesh, sending rivulets of blood down his back. On his right shoulder, there's the feel of tears falling, another hand gripping the upper part of his arm, and it burns like a brand. He's panicked, and he looks down, a hand print forever seared into his skin. _

_ He stumbles away from the offending hands, trying to decipher the faces they belong to, but he can't, not past a massive blur that covers his entire vision. _

_ He watches one figure attack the door, another brief moment of blacksoftblackblue invading everything, and the laughter starts up again. Feathers are being pulled one by one, out of angel wings, out of giant angel wings that fold over him, envelop him. The color blue pleads with him, a silver to match winking._

_ There's a syringe in his hand, a folded, scorched spoon in the other, and behind the horrific scene he's witnessing is a formidable building, gray and water-stained with barred windows. _

_ Out of the corner of his eye is a flower-covered casket, surrounding by ash and flame._

_ "Come on, Deany. You know you want to." The syringe is dripping now. _

_ The screaming continues. The laughing does not stop._

And Dean wakes up crying.

~X~

"Don't screw this up."

Dean decides that'll be his mantra for – well the rest of the year. Don't. Screw. This. Up. One thing, just one that he actually cares about going right. Don't. Screw. This. Up.

He's never been so nervous in his life.

He's been out of the, how you say, _dating scene_ for a very long time, probably years in fact, and the fact that he's never really been a people person does not help the situation at all.

Almost needless to say, he's practically hyperventilating by the time he pulls up to Cass apartment.

_Whatever you do, Dean Winchester. Do. Not. Screw. This. Up. _

**A/N: So. Again with the hinting. Muhahaha. But, hey, next part is Dean and Cass' first date, so hey, things will come to light. Gosh, this is so horribly out of character and inconsistent. I apologize, really I do. And did I say thanks for sticking with me? Really, thank you. I just have so many plans for this, and there's certain things that I know is gonna take time to get there. I have this beautiful ending scene planned out. Oh, I cried just thinking about it. GODSTIEL. I'M RAMBLEING AGAIN, SORRY, IGNORE ME. **

** Reviews please?  
Oh and pie for anyone who figures out A) Why Cass was at the doc's and what she's talking about and B) The meaning behind Dean's dream, or at least some of it. :D **


	4. Part IV

Part IV:  
_Denial seems it had to come – relied on me to say it all_

**A/N: I. Am. Dead. Seven reviews, nine story faves, and twelve follows. I love you, all, gosh my beautiful amazing readers. I will marry all of you, and invite Cass to our honeymoon. I love you. **

**Oh, gosh and thank you for the constructive criticism, really it means so much to me. I'm taking it into account, and I'm going to try extra hard with this chap, just for you guys. Did I mention I love you?**

***Cracks neck* *Flexes fingers* LETS DO THIS. **

**Oh, Godstiel, and a big thanks to my Best Fangirl For Life, Haylee (_chickyoudon'tknow)_, who gave me so many eautiful wonderful fantastic ideas for this. I. Really. Owe. You. One.**

**And an even bigger thanks to my beautiful amazing wonderful Beta Meg (** _**angels-hunters-n-fiyahflies). **_**Because she took a piece of garbage and made it golden. I. Love. You. So. Much.**

The second thing Castiel Shurley notices about Dean Winchester is that he is different.

He can't tell you what it is about Dean. Not yet at least. But it's there. It's beautiful. And it just rolls off Dean in waves. And Castiel basks in them.

So he makes a decision. He makes a decision as he feels his way along the rough stone wall, down the metal stairs that always creak (its sound being the reason of many a sleepless nights for Cass) and into the porch (or whatever it is in front of his building).

And then there's a sudden, warm grasp on his forearm and a worried voice in his ears, "Where's Balthy?"

_Mm. That voice._ "He's not always needed."

He hears a swallow, feels a tug and then there's the smooth surface of a car hood under his palm. "Cass, meet my baby." There's a lilt in Dean's tone, like he's afraid the joke will be taken the wrong way.

Castiel tilts his head towards the sound of Dean's voice and offers a smile, "She seems beautiful."

He can't see Dean's grin, but he can feel it, tingling at the back of his neck. "She is."

Castiel trails his hand along the car, catching every little scratch and dent that's more than likely to be missed by the naked eye, until he finds the door handle. That tingling feeling on the back of his neck migrates to his cheeks and he knows Dean is watching his every move.

He climbs into the car without another word.

~X~

The next thing Dean notices is that Castiel can read him like an open book.

It's evident in his intense and fractured gazes that never quite find his face, in the tilts of his head and the slight smiles that Dean's sure Cass doesn't even know about. He doesn't know what Cass reads, how he interprets them, and that's what worries him more than anything.

_God, don't screw this up._

_ "_Dean?" Cass angles his head towards him when Dean climbs into the driver's seat of his baby. "Can we not take the stereotypical dinner route? There's a place I would like you to see."

The statement catches him off-guard and he drops his keys; they chime when they hit the floorboard, and the sound brings him out of his momentary stupor. "Uh, yeah, Cass, of course." He feels for his keys as he says this, and ends up hitting his forehead on the steering wheel with a rather loud _thump._

_ "_Son of a bitch." Dean rubs his forehead and shoots Cass a sideways glance when he begins laughing.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks, trying to hide his grin behind his hands.

_F.M.L._ "Yeah, yeah, fine," Dean mutters, probably blushing madly, as he shoves the keys into the ignition. "So, where's this place?"

Castiel's smile disappears and he turns away, towards the windshield. "1963 Damon Road."

"An address?" Dean questions, pulling the car into reverse.

"Yes."

It's raining by the time they pull onto the main road, and Dean leans forward, squinting. (He's only slightly jealous that all Cass has to do is lean back in his seat and enjoy the ride, but then again, he just looks so _adorable_, and any negative thoughts are gone.) "Where is this place, exactly?"

"It's in Mulberry Hallow, behind the church." Cass closes his eyes.

"That rich neighborhood?" Dean gives up and turns the windshield wipers on, noting how they creak and groan in protest.

Castiel chuckles, "I suppose."

"Can I ask why?"

"Why what?" Cass' eyes fly open and he turns towards Dean, gaze settling just over his shoulder.

"Why there?"

The corner of Cass' mouth twitches again, but Dean can't tell if it's itching to go up or down. The swirling emotion in his eyes doesn't help decipher this either. "It was my parents' house."

"Was?"

"Yes. They both passed away when I was fifteen."

"I'm sorry." There's a sudden lump in Dean's throat. "My Mom and Dad are dead, too."

"My apologies," Castiel whispers, staring at the dashboard with unseeing eyes.

"S'not your fault," Dean's whispering too, and for a moment it's just the two of them, reliving grief and drowning in memories they'd much rather forget.

The rain lets up a bit when Dean directs the car into the entrance of the neighborhood, allowing him a better view of the houses and the road. The moon shines through a break in the clouds, casting eerie shadows across prim-and-proper lawns and shiny new cars.

For the most part, all of the houses aren't really houses as much as _mansions_ – large, sprawling with Victorian-style trim and tinted windows. Dean never really knew _nice_ – he practically raised Sammy, what with his dad working two or more jobs at a time just to put food on the table– and he looks at the large structures with an almost longing.

The road stretches beyond Dean's range of vision, with twisting side roads branching off on either side, leading to more (probably bigger) homes. "You grew up here?" There's a twist in his voice.

"Yes," Castiel says, and he's leaning forward, hand braced against the dash. "How many side roads have we passed?"

"Uhm," Dean glances in his rear-view mirror, "About four."

"There will be a side road to your left, the seventh from the entrance. Turn there."

"Alright," Dean does as he's told, and as he turns onto said road, he sees that it dead-ends on the long driveway of a two-story home, more modern-looking then the rest, with spacious windows and a soft-cream color paint job. Various parts of the walls are covered in sprawling vines, and Dean is reminded of that one time Sam made him try fresh squid. (Not the best meal he's ever had, but the not the worst.)

"It's the one at the end," Castiel's voice is soft when he speaks, and he's gripping the dashboard ever tighter, knuckles white.

"Cass, are you alright?" Dean alternates between looking at the road and Castiel in the passenger seat, a worried expression dashing across his features.

"I'm fine," Cass reassures, swallowing hard. "I just haven't been here in quite a while."

"Does your family, y'know, still own the house?" The Impala whines as he pushes it up the steep driveway, still stealing looks to his right.

"My brother and I do." There's a gasp when Dean kills the engine. "Dean, what does it look like?"

Dean studies Cass' face before looking towards the house, leaning over his steering wheel and peering out the windshield. "Well, it's . . . nice. You know, good paint job, big windows. There's a lot of vines though, all up and down the walls. And the lawn's not exactly _Home Owners Weekly_ material. No offense."

"None taken," Castiel frowns and finally releases his hold on the dashboard. "Gabriel and I, we took care of it for as long as we could. But then –" he breaks off and there's a long moment of silence, stretching and pulling at the two of them, shoving itself into their ears and down their throats. And somehow, Dean knows.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Dean isn't okay with the emotions flitting across Cass' face – they frighten him, and he has the distinct itch to just take Cass in his arms and tell him that everything would be okay. "I mean, you just- You don't seem okay."

"I'm fine," Castiel snaps, and in one fluid motion is out of the car and feeling his way forward.

Dean gets out after him and takes his forearm, "Here."

"I'm not helpless, Dean," Cass pulls away harshly, and in the soft light of the moon, Dean can see tears glinting in his deep blue eyes.

"Hey," Dean grabs both of Cass shoulders, "I know you're not helpless, you're actually pretty damn strong. Stronger than me even. Cass, I know it hasn't been long enough, but I care about you. A lot. And I just want to make sure you're okay. And right now, I don't think you are."

The tears come freely now, and there's not much thought between that last word and the quick (_)_ brush of the lips Dean's commencing.

"You don't have to do this, y'know," Dean whispers, pressing his forehead against Cass and closing his eyes, still reveling in the fireworks just beginning to fade behind his lids.

"I want to," Cass whispers back, voice calmer than before. "It's important to me."

Dean doesn't ask Cass again if he is sure. Somehow, someway, he suddenly just knows this is something Cass needs to do. He doesn't know why, not yet – but he's content without the piece of information, so he pulls the smaller man closer to him, cradling the head of dark hair under his chin and tightens his grip.

And when Cass takes a deep breath and deepens the embrace, he knows he did the right thing.

~X~

Compared to the state of the lawn outside, the interior is _elegant_ Dean decides. The carpet is thick and lush beneath his feet – he wonders to himself if he should take his shoes off – and the color matches the trim of the expensive furniture scattered about. One step over the threshold of the door opens up to an expansive living room that fades into an oddly empty dining room several feet away.

He isn't allowed much time to admire the rest of the house – only glimpses of paintings and vases with long-dead flowers, photographs that are too small to register – before he's being pulled towards a grand staircase off to his left.

It's Cass, guiding both of them to the foot of the stairs – he releases his hold on Dean's wrist when he finds the banister.

They stay in silence, and when they reach the top, Castiel stops at the first doorway, fingertips barely touching the dust-covered knob. "This was my parent's room."

Dean doesn't reply, only brushes his hand against Castiel's in silent encouragement. Castiel responds though, grabbing Dean's hand in his free one and pushing open the door – and Dean can't say that he's entirely surprised. Or against it, even though Cass is squeezing with all his strength.

The room is more or less _normal_, not all that extraordinary. There's a king-sized bed by the window, a non-descript dresser and a side-table next to it. A small door off to the side leads to the closet, and the far walls, opposite to the door, has large windows with heavy, velvet curtains on. Every surface has thin layer of dust but for a room that hasn't been used for a very long time, it's pretty clean.

Dean stays back as Castiel feels his way into the room. He wants to give Castiel some amount of privacy since this obviously means a lot to him.

Castiel walks straight to the bed in the middle, like he has the path memorized – come to think about it, that's probably not far from the truth.

When he reaches it, he turns in the general direction of Dean with a frown. "Dean, where are you?" Dean mutters an automatic _here_ from his place, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

Castiel sighs, but doesn't say anything, simply lies down on the bed without bothering to remove the covers.

Castiel closes his eyes and folds his hand across his stomach, breathing in deeply and evenly. "Dean, tell me what you see."

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Cass, I –"

"Please?"

He doesn't know what happened inside of him, but all of a sudden, everything makes so much sense, and he's saying, "I see something incredible."

"What's that?"

"You." And it's more than likely the most truthful thing he's ever said in his whole life.

"That's sweet," Cass replies, but Dean can detect the incredulous undertone under those softly spoken words.

"I mean it, Cass. You mean a lot to me. I know we haven't known each other for long, I know it's like one of them lame-ass teenage romance novels where they meet someone once and think it's the love of their lives, but . . . I care about you, like you're my own family –" Dean stops abruptly, voice cracking on the last syllable.

There's a moment of silence. "What happened to your family, Dean?" Cass whispers. Like he understands. And more than likely, he does – more than likely, he can read Dean in everything he says or does, even if he can't see him.

Dean's not entirely opposed to that, even if the defense mechanisms in his brain are screeching in rage for letting things get this far, this deep, this _intimate. _They roar even louder in his skull when he finds himself curling up next to Cass on the bed, struggling to keep his breath even.

He picks up Cass' hand without really thinking about it and begins to trace circles on his palm. "My mom, she died in a fire when I was four. I barely got out in time with my brother, Sammy. And my dad, he had a heart attack a few months back. Just dropped dead out of nowhere."

"Is that why you came back?"

"No, it's actually why I left in the first place. But then . . . I heard Sammy was in trouble, so I brought him to Topeka and decided to stay in Lawrence, if only for a while."

"Gabriel, and Sam, they are in the same rehabilitation center. Your brother – what's he . . .?"

"What's his poison?" Dean laughs bitterly. "It was heroin, for a long time. And it's my fault."

"I'm sure that's not true."

Dean drops Cass hand. "I'm the one who introduced him to it. Just, 'here, Sammy, I know how you can have some real fun!' God, I was such an idiot."

"You were young," Cass counters.

"That's not a good excuse," Dean turns over on his side and traces over Cass' facial features with his eyes. "What about your parents? I mean, I don't wanna push – "

"Today's the ten year anniversary of when I saw them die." The comment is blunt and it stops Dean's words in his throat; he chokes on them. "The police say it was merely a robbery gone wrong, but somehow, I don't believe that's the truth." His tone is surprisingly void of emotion, like he's told this story, or at least practiced telling it, so many times he's grown detached. "Dean, that's how I know Alistair."

The world's awash in red. "Alistair?" The name is like fire in his mouth.

"He stabbed my mother first," Cass voice is lower, deeper, but still as monotonous as when he spoke that first altering sentence, "And then my father, just to be sure, I suppose. It's one of the few things I wish I didn't remember _seeing._"

"Cass –"

"I stood in that very doorway," Cass gestures towards such, "Gabriel had to drag me away, more or less. The cops were already outside, but somehow he escaped. There was never enough proof to convict him for it, he had an alibi. But, Dean, I know it was him."

"I don't doubt that," Dean rolls on his back again, staring angrily at the ceiling, the corners of his vision still crimson. It's not fair, he decides. Alistair's tainted so many lives, destroyed so many more. "You don't know how sorry I am."

"You have no reason to be."

_I do._ Dean almost says these words out loud, but something stops him, and they die in his chest before they have the chance to enter the world. _Because that's exactly the right time frame when –_

"I know what you're thinking," Castiel murmurs with a dark chuckle. "This is the worst 'first date' that ever existed."

"Actually, the opposite." Cass is doing that fantastic thing he does – he's making all the anger and guilt and everything in between cease to exist, and the next thing Dean knows he's smiling again. "I'm just surprised you trust me so much."

"You're different, Dean Winchester. I can feel it. You're . . . a righteous man." And his face shows nothing other than sincerity.

"Oh, Cass." it's Dean's turning to laugh sarcastically. "Trust me, I'm anything but_ righteous_."

Castiel frowns. "I don't care about past lives or sins, I only care that the both of us are here, now, and it's _right."_

Dean stops laughing. He feels the bitterness rise through his throat. God, he should've known, he should've known he'd screw up somewhere along the way – Cass' is too _good_ for him, anyway. But it still hurts and he can't help but ask, "Why am I sensing a _but_ at the end of that sentence?"

And in that brief second, something changes drastically about Castiel's face – his sightless eyes become shadowed, his mouth set in a firm line and frowning, eyebrows drawn together. "I should never have brought you here. I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?" Dean sits up then, panic worming into his voice.

Cass tilts his head in the opposite direction, "I've made a mistake."

"_Cass -"_

"It's not a good idea to get attached to me, Dean."

**A/N: Reviews are love. Seriously, I'll pay you in CassBucks. :D**


	5. Part V

**Part V:**

**Denial's left you all alone**

**A/N: I think you guys want me to die. I'm up to, what, 20 follows? And 12 faves? Soon, I will be a ghost, haunting this story, I swear. And fourteen reviews, my GODSTIEL, fourteen. That's a lot for me and I am sooo happpyyyy.**

**Now, I need to set to work Photoshopping Cass' head onto a dollar bill.**

**...**

**Another big big big big huge frigging colossal thanks to my Beta Meg. Without you, I'd be nothing, absolutely nothing.**

Dean Winchester notices for the fiftieth fucking time in his life that he can't really have anything that

makes him happy.

Anger clouds his vision and his confusion turns his brain to into a swirling mass of hornet-like thoughts, stinging over and over. Finally, _finally,_ one thing in his life he actually cared about, one thing that he could invest himself into without consequences, without worry that somebody would come and snatch it all away – and that one thing wants nothing to do with him.

Worse, that one thing is completely and utterly bipolar.

Immediately after those Earth-shattering words, Cass had fled the room, fumbling his way down the flight of stairs. Dean caught up with him at the bottom, screaming out a string of "Cass, wait!"s and "What are you talking about?"s, but all Cass did was shove him away with tear-filled eyes and a broken voice. "I'm sorry, I'm so very, very sorry."

He climbed into Dean's Impala, not bothering to even close and lock the door to his dead parents' house (which Dean paused to take the liberty of doing). He met him on the far side of the Impala, crouching down so he could see his face. "What's wrong?"

"I think you should take me home now," was all Castiel said for the rest of the night.

Dean's turning this over in his brain as he storms out of the back of the Roadhouse, trash bags in each of his hands. It's hot out today, and he rubs sweat off his forehead with his upper arm, trash bag banging into his chest in the process.

He tosses the trash into the Dumpster with more force than strictly required, when suddenly a body barrels at him, throwing him backwards with the momentum. He gasps when his back connects with wall of the Roadhouse, but then there's a forearm on his throat cutting of his oxygen supply.

"Hello, Deany," Alistair breathes, face dangerously close to Dean's own.

Dean claws at Alastair's hand to reduce the pressure but Alistair shows no signs of budging; he merely smiles and presses his mouth to Dean's ear. "We miss you, Deany. You think you've made a life for yourself here, but you're wrong. I know you'll come back to us." Alastair lets out a low sinister laugh. "You always do."

"Never," Dean manages to choke out, still trying to escape Alistair's deathly grip.

Alistair chuckles again, and steps away – Dean falls to the ground, inhaling deeply and coughing as the much needed air rushes into his lungs.

Alistair leans against the Dumpster, "How's that boyfriend of yours, hmm?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"Don't," Dean coughs out between gritted teeth, "Don't even think about."

Alistair lights his cigarette in one quick flick of the lighter, taking a long drag. "Aww, Deany, but he's so

cute. I thought we've already had this discussion - you need to learn how to share!" As he speaks, the smoke curls out of his mouth in tendrils.

Dean staggers to his feet and contemplates launching himself at Alistair. He can envision himself throwing punch after punch, maybe a kick or two, into Alistair's smirking face, his gut. He can imagine himself taking him down.

And that scares him.

"Go away," Dean coughs again. "Get out of here, or so help me, I swear I'll –"

"You'll what?" Alistair's smile is dangerous and intimidating, and even Dean, who's very, very used to it by that point, flinches. "Try anything and that boyfriend of yours? Well, let's just say he'll take a much needed vacation."

"He's not a part of this," Dean's fists clench and he glares at Alistair with narrowed eyes, "He never was, he never will be."

"We'll see about that." Alistair flicks his cigarette aside and starts walking away, backwards. "I'll be seeing you, Deany. Give Castiel a kiss for me." And with one last parting smirk, he turns and disappears around the corner.

And Dean runs.

He bursts into the back entrance, but he can't really see where he's going, not around the panic burning in his eyes, his throat. He trips on something unidentifiable, falling right into –

A pair of arms.

"Dean?"

No, no, not now. He can't deal with this now, not at this moment, not when everything inside of him is slowly falling apart, not when sobs are pushing at the back of his throat, and oh my God, Alistair could be watching them right now, and Cass. _He has to protect Cass._

And so he keeps running.

He still can't see where he's headed to, not really, everything an unrecognizable smear of colors, like a painting a child did with chubby fingers and no sense of shapes or shadows. He's vaguely aware of Ellen's voice, calling out his name, but it doesn't quite reach his brain, as if her words were a butter knife attempting to cut a steak. Cutting, but barely. Certainly not noticeably, not without many repeated tries.

His hands find purchase on the door, and he's pushing on impulse, sprinting towards his Impala on the far side of the parking lot. He won't give himself the satisfaction of looking around, for Alistair, or anybody associated with him, to make sure he's safe. As long as he gets away. Maybe, just maybe, if he got away, he'd leave them alone. All of them.

Castiel.

He throws himself into his Impala, fumbling with the car keys; the shiny surface gives a glimpse of the sun, casting a strip of golden-white light across Dean's cheekbones. He shoves it into the ignition, squinting against the flare, and turns the key as fast as his shaking fingers with allow him too.

Dean forces himself to stop for just a second, to inhale deeply, just once, so he can give his brain a minute to catch up with the pandemonium zooming through his entire body. He doesn't give himself long – in his rear view, he's seeing Ellen run out after him, and oh, there's Cass, stumbling through the doorway, and even in the tiny reflection Dean can see that his too blue eyes are blown wide, his hands clutching at anything they can find.

He pulls the car into reverse.

And then he's pushing the Impala much faster than the speed limit, without a destination on his mind –just away, far, far away.

Cass might not want anything to do with him, but he still cares. He shouldn't, he really honestly shouldn't, he doesn't have that right, it's barely been a few weeks -a month and a half at the most- but he does. He does. He's not even aware of what it is, whatever this big ball of mush is inside of him that's been growing ever since he first laid eyes on Castiel.

Dean Winchester does not believe in fate, or destiny, or even soul mates.

But he could.

~X~

The next thing Castiel realizes with dismay is that he has got to learn how to keep his head on straight, disregarding the almost literalism of those words.

He's certain that Dean deserves much better than him, much better than somebody who is almost _tricking_ a guy to fall in love with him only to . . . Only a few months, they said, and these days he's taking it seriously, even if it's been this way for going on two years. No, Dean deserves somebody that'll be around long-term to take care of him. Dean needs to be taken care of. He's willing to, but he knows he can't, not for long.

But now, he can. So he does.

"Ellen," he's fumbling towards the sound of her voice calling Dean's name, ignoring Balthy whining at his heels. He can hear her breathing and sighing, then her warm hand's in squeezing his. He grips it so tight that he's sure it hurts but Ellen just returns the pressure. "Something's wrong with Dean."

"I know," she says almost solemnly. "He took off in his car, the son of a bitch." Her words may be bitter, but her voice drips with concern. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he leans into her touch. "Where did he go?"

With a quick 'hmm', she tugs at his hand, pulling him someplace he can't figure out. She places both her hands on his shoulders, gently sitting him down. "There's something you're not telling me, Cass," she's barely whispering, and something twinges in his chest. "What happened last night? Neither of you have said a word about it, and you have yet to pick up your violin. That's not like you; you're always turning to that thing."

He doesn't respond. He's too ashamed. He bows his head.

"Come on," she gives him a not-quite gentle shake. "It would help us find him, you know he would."

"Perhaps he went to visit his brother." He purposefully dodges the question, and he fully expects Ellen to ask it again, to keep pressing.

But she doesn't. "You haven't told him, have you?"

He closes his eyes, fighting off the urge to curl up defensively. It's not about him right now, it's about making sure Dean's alright. "That's not of import."

"You haven't," she murmurs, more to herself than him. Cass doesn't like the pitiful tone in her voice even though she means well.

"He doesn't need that burden," he snaps, shrugging off her hands and rising to his feet. "He doesn't . . . he shouldn't get attached to me, it's a bad idea."

"Sweetheart, that boy is already head over heels for you," he can almost feel Ellen shaking her head. "He was a mess, Cass. It's not my story to tell, but things were real bad for him. I was worried about him coming back, thought maybe . . . but no, he's doing so great. And it's 'cause of you, honey. You are good for him." There's a smile in her voice that makes him want to cringe.

"Please, Ellen, please don't tell me that," he struggles to keep his breathing even. "I already feel guilty enough that you, and Joanna and Ash carry this knowledge. I am sorry. It's not fair to you."

"Screw that!" He jumps as her voice jumps a few octaves. "It's our job, we care about you, you're like family now, you know that! Nothing you can say will ever make us stop loving you."

He feels her presence shift to the far left, the sound of keys rattling finding him.

"Now let's cut this crap and go find ourselves a certain Dean Winchester."

~X~

Dean hates himself.

He has for a long time, but right now he really does. He'd like to say that some outside force drew him to this place, but he would be lying. It was him, _all_ him and his screwed up mindset.

He's sitting in a bar across town, one he used to go to way back when things were bad. He never bothered to learn the name – there was never a sign – but the interior is the same blacked out, ramshackle, dust-coated design that he hates. They still have the same bartender, a battered-looking scrawny guy named Garth that has a horrible habit of twitching and stuttering. As far as Dean knows, he's the only one that works there and he recognizes Dean as soon as he walks in.

When Dean all but collapsed into a stool he's settled in more times than he cares to admit, Garth placed a drink in front of him without even asking. Whiskey, straight, just like he used to take it.

There wasn't any hesitation.

That scares him.

Five or six, or maybe even seven shots later, Dean's slumped over the counter, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes tracing idle patterns on the battered counter. He's singing Foreigner more off-key than usual, which says a lot, considering he's totally tone-deaf, he's sure that his leather jacket just got stolen off the back of his chair, but he can't bring himself to lift his head long enough to check.

He sighs. He likes being drunk, he decides then. He doesn't have to think. He doesn't like to

think.

"Dean?" there's a hand on the small of his back, and a warm voice that's like velvet in contrast to the ringing in his ears. "Dean, are you alright?"

"Mm, nope," he slurs, popping on the "p", and giggling. "I theenk it'd be a good 'dea if I went hommmeeee." He stretches the last word out, laughing again, and repeating it because he rather liked the way it sounded.

"Dean!" that velvet voice repeats, and there's two hands placing themselves clumsily on either side of his face, fingertips disappearing into his hair. "Can you stand up?"

"Ummm," he concentrates really, really hard and eventually finds the energy to lift his head, feeling a twinge of disappointment when those soft hands rooting him to the ground disappear. He attempts to stand, but ends up collapsing sideways out of his chair, knocking into a pair of legs that crumble along with him.

There's a yelp of pain as something hard strikes his head. He rubs his forehead thoughtfully, squinting the ceiling. "Ow."

He forces his drooping eyes open more, rolling over on his stomach and seeing a figure clad in a beige trench coat, sitting up and pressing two fingers of each hand to his temples. It takes Dean a pregnant minute to recognize his face.

"Cass?"

Cass looks up at the sound of his name, and Dean sees that his sunglasses are perched atop his nose, which is bleeding, a trickle of crimson red dripping off his chin. "There's a cab outside," he explains, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his coat in the process. "Perhaps it would be prudent if wegot to it before the driver grows impatient."

There's another stretched moment. "Yeah, yeah." He hefts himself to his feet, using the edge of the counter for support. He stands, swaying, his head light and in some dream land that's all black and white.

Castiel fumbles for his forearm – as soon as he finds it, he uses his free hand to feel along the counter top, half-dragging a drunken Dean behind him.

"Duddeeeee!" Garth smirks from his place behind the counter, where he was watching the scene unfold. "Are you blind?"

Cass stops, turning towards the sound of his voice. "I don't see how that's any of your business, but if you must know, I am. I don't need eyes however, to see that you are a complete and utter ass-butt."

And with those words, he finished his journey through the dark bar, pushing Dean out into a moonlit night.

~X~

It takes another thirty dollars out of Dean's wallet (and Cass is not paying him back, either) to convince the cigar-stinking cab driver to keep driving to Castiel's apartment.

"If he throws up all over my backseat," the guy huffs with a Brooklyn accent as he puts the taxi into drive. "You're paying to have it replaced!"

"Of course," Cass reassures, digging into his pocket for a spare tissue. Though there's still blood all over his face, he uses it to wipe the drool off the corner of Dean's mouth, which he felt when he brushed his hands over his face to make sure there were no injuries (after all, Ellen had told him that Dean was known for getting into bar fights in the old days, and once they concluded that's more than likely where he was, Castiel's been fretting about it) who's already passed out, which he can tell by the fact he's snoring, head lolling onto Cass' shoulder

With a sigh, he wipes off the sweat he felt on his forehead as well, and shoves the tissue back into his pocket. The driver apparently notices this in the rear-view mirror, and snorts. "What is he your boyfriend or something."

The question catches Castiel off guard. He hesitates. "You could say that, I suppose."

The cab driver snorts again. "He's lucky then. My wife would never take care of me like that."

Cass tilts his head towards the general direction of where he feels Dean on his shoulder. "What is your name?"

"Zachariah."

"Lovely name," Castiel nods to himself. "I'm Castiel."

"Well, Castiel. The world needs more people like you."

~X~

Zachariah goes as far as to help Castiel take Dean into his apartment. They each have one of his arms thrown over their respective shoulders, and by the time they reach the door, the drunken man is heaving, displaying signs of throwing up.

"The key's under the mat," he tells the cab driver, who quickly finds it and pushes open the door.

He continues to help Cass settle Dean onto the bathroom floor; the former has high hopes that if he does throw up, it'll be in the toilet, or even the bathtub, and not all over the floor.

"Thank you," he says to Zachariah, whose presence he can feel backing away from the doorway.

"No problem."

When their saying their goodbyes, and Zachariah's settled back in his cab, he rolls the passenger window down, and calls to the retreating Cass, "Hey, uh, Castiel?"

Cass stops and casts a look over his shoulder.

"He didn't . . . he didn't do that to you, did he? Your face I mean."

Castiel puts a hand to his nose – he had forgotten all about the nose bleed. "No, of course not."

Zachariah doesn't seem content with that answer, but says, "Alright. Give me a call, any time," any way.

"Thank you, again," Cass gives a smile he hopes doesn't falter and appears genuine.

~X~

Back inside, Cass pulls Dean to his feet again, whose back asleep, judging by the extremely loud snoring. It takes him a good five minutes or so to get him into his bedroom, and to get at least half of him onto the bed.

He shrugs his trench coat off, tossing it to a corner he can't see, taking a moment to lean against the doorway and just breathe. Ellen has Balthy tonight, and so he feels rather alone, especially with Dean passed out drunk.

Castiel has issues with drunk.

He's fixing to feel his way into his living room so he can curl up onto the sofa to get some much needed sleep, when a soft voice half-whispers, "Cass?"

He stops dead in his tracks. "Dean?" he doesn't face him. He's not sure if he can bring himself to. "Are you alright?"

He hears a yawn. "Could you stay with me tonight?" Castiel wants to cry. Dean's voice sounds so broken, and empty, and God, he can't say no, not to that.

He sighs for about the billionth time in the past hour, treading towards his bed. When he feels his silk comforter under his fingertips, he carefully climbs into it, pressing his body into Dean's, more out of comfort to himself than to the other.

God, he's so warm.

"Thank you," Dean whispers, cautiously encircling Castiel with his arms.

For just a brief moment in time, they can both pretend that everything is okay.

**A/N: SO. I'm not commenting on this chapter, because I'm still drowning in feels. I sat down today (Thursday) after school and just wrote and wrote and wrote until I couldn't write anymore, and I've been going at it for about four hours. I'm so proud of myself, I really struggled with this chapter UNTIL...**

**Music is like a huggeeeee part of my writing. Really, these would be blank if it wasn't for my music. So, Imma start doing my "Soundtracks" per chapter, because I highly recommend ALL of these songs. They really helped me, ESP. WITH THIS CHAPTER.**

**My playlist for this chapter:**

**Hurricane Drunk by Florence + the Machine**

**Muse: Time is Running Out, Starlight, Apocalypse Please, Newborn, Uprising, Hysteria, I Belong to You, Supermassive Black Hole, Undisclosed Desires, Butterflies and Hurricanes, Can't Take My Eyes off You, Escape**

**Chameleon Circuit: The Sound of Drums, Journey's End, The Doctor is Dying, Extermine Regenerate, An Awful Lot of Running**

**AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS. I LOVE ALL OF YOU.**

**Reviews are so much love. 3**

**Cassbucks, anyone?**


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